


Tea

by fengirl88



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Liquid Ficlets, M/M, writing meme
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-15
Updated: 2011-03-15
Packaged: 2017-10-17 00:29:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/170996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fengirl88/pseuds/fengirl88
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He's always liked a good cup of tea.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tea

**Author's Note:**

> written for blooms84 who requested a John ficlet at my writing meme.

He's always liked a good cup of tea. Milky tea as a child, so pale it was hardly tea at all. NAAFI tea in the Army, so strong you could stand a spoon up in it, almost, an unmistakable brick-orange colour. He's not particularly into green tea or chai, though he likes to buy leaf tea and play around with creating his own mixture when he's in funds. Unexpected combinations are good: his current favourite's a blend of Keemun, Darjeeling and Lapsang Souchong.

Never did get that cup of tea from Mrs Hudson, the first evening at 221b. Too busy rushing off to Lauriston Gardens with Sherlock to see some more trouble – _oh god yes_. Jasmine tea at 2 in the morning with the dim sum and fortune cookies. Making tea for Sherlock, it's always him who makes it even though presumably Sherlock must know how, at least in theory. Wishing Sherlock would remember to buy milk. Wishing he wouldn't do things like keeping _a bloody head in the refrigerator_.

The hospital vending machine makes the foulest tea John's ever drunk. The only good thing about it is that, judging by the faces Mycroft and Lestrade are pulling, the coffee's even worse.

Sherlock's not drinking anything. Sherlock's in Intensive Care, festooned with tubes and lines, and nobody knows what the damage is going to be when he finally regains consciousness. If he's even going to – _don't think about that, got to stay positive_.

Lestrade sits down next to John, puts an arm around him. John leans against him, surprised at himself but grateful for the warmth and solidity. He needs this: to feel _grounded_ , connected to a reality that's not just this airless overheated too-bright room.

“D'you want a biscuit or something with that?” Lestrade asks, looking doubtfully at the beige drink in the beige plastic cup.

 _Just tea for me_. John's stomach knots at the memory of Sherlock's voice, the row before the first explosion.

All the rows and the anger. Sherlock saying _I've disappointed you_ and his own voice saying _Good. That's good deduction. Yeah_. None of it matters now. He just wants Sherlock back, wants another chance.

 _Not much cop, this caring lark_ – **Stop it.**

Mycroft's started pacing again. Lestrade's arm tightens and for a moment John just wants to bury his face in Lestrade's shoulder, give in to the pain. Then he pulls himself together – _brace yourself, steady now_ .

They've got a long night ahead of them. He sits up straight and goes on drinking his tea.


End file.
